Todd and Rebecca: Three First Times
by Tessaray
Summary: Todd Manning and Rebecca Lewis, the title says it all. But things aren't always as they seem...
1. HEAVEN

**THREE FIRST TIMES: ******REBECCA and TODD****

**_by_ Tessaray**

* * *

**1\. HEAVEN**

* * *

This was inevitable. His hot weight above her, his soft moans on her lips in the cold light of dawn. She knew it would be him… she'd claim she didn't, but yes she did… _of course_ it had to be him, from the moment he swaggered into the prison visiting room, all attitude and flowing hair. Samson, the Old Testament strong man… that's who she thought of, our sweet Bible-soaked Rebecca on her mission to save lost souls. Oh, he was a bad one, that Todd Manning, but he was coming around to the light and so what if he looked at her like he wanted to corrupt her in ways she'd never heard of… she was the willing bait that would lure him to the Lord. And in return, she could watch his lips curve into a slow smile and feel his warm voice slide down her spine and slip between her legs, and know it was all divine will.

Samson, favored by God, went on to defeat the Philistine army with the jawbone of an ass. Todd Manning, favored by no one, went on to defeat the Llanview police force with a handgun and Rebecca Lewis, girl hostage.

He'd been crazed and desperate, had handcuffed her to him and dragged her though the winter woods for a night and a day before breaking into this ratty motel room somewhere in upstate New York. He'd left one dead body behind him in the Tabernacle, how many ahead? Rebecca's, maybe. His own, _definitely_, if she didn't do something about this situation. That's why she went for the gun on the nightstand. She should have known he'd be a light sleeper, being on the run for his life and all. And that's how she ended up here, arms stretched up, wrists shackled to the headboard, trapped beneath him on this squeaky bed, gaping up into savage eyes that were quickly scaring away the best of her will.

He crushed her body, breathed wrath and fire onto her skin, raged about trust and pain and betrayal. It wasn't the Todd she thought she knew—it was the one she'd been warned about... and it was the truth. His wild violence charged at her from deep inside him like a slavering panther out of the blackest jungle and she felt all of herself recoil, wail, eyes go wide and BAM!

Gone.

Just like that, he pulled it back, shut it down. And then there was just his face, frozen with horror and regret, his soft new growth of beard tinged blood-red in the glow of the _Vacancy_ sign flickering through the too-thin window shades.

'_Rebecca,_' he gasped. '_Rebecca…_'

Small syllables, but they contained too many shades of anguish for her to take in… as if she could, as if she weren't deafened by the echo of his power, still awestruck and cowering before a force so much more _essential_ than herself…

His will was too strong, had made her weak, had corrupted her already… she knew it then, because in the calm after the storm, in his sad repentance as he was gathering himself to lift away from her, she felt her thigh press against his, lightly… and her pelvis tilt against his, barely. The _worst_ of her will was doing that, without her consent, but it was all she had left and there was no way to fight it, or him, crushed as she was beneath him, handcuffed and helpless, mouth too dry to speak.

As he stared down at her, a new kind of wild grew in his eyes. But it was on a strong and sturdy leash, and the leash was held by a question.

_Do you... could you... want me?_

She answered with a trembling sigh. She didn't mean to… but he made her do it, by being so beautiful and wild and near.

'Rebecca,' he breathed and lowered his mouth, brushed his open lips over hers, slipped his tongue inside to kiss her deeply—soft, wrong, obscene—the shock of it de-boning her where she lay.

He stretched along her body then, reached toward the handcuffs and she saw the key, knew he meant to release her, meant to make her... _complicit_.

She flinched away, thrust her wrists beyond his reach.

'What are you doing?' he said.

'I… just...' she stammered. 'Leave it. Please.'

Confusion, then sudden understanding in his face… and so much hurt that she had to look away.

But the hurt didn't stop him. Not his hands, not his mouth, ravenous and rough on her throat and breasts, taking, coaxing from her strange, shameful sounds that made her shy—so shy that she couldn't watch as he pulled off his clothing piece by piece… then unbuttoned and opened her dress, pushed up her bra, wrapped his fingers in her panties and pulled them slowly down her legs. Her cheeks flamed when he leaned back and scorched her with that look from the visiting room… so carnal and lightyears beyond her.

'Hush,' he said when she stiffened, his voice guttural, uncompromising. 'Hush, Rebecca, no turning back.' She felt his large hands, hot and insistent in private places, teasing her open. Then with a growl he slid down and shouldered her legs apart, his silken hair flowing like water over her thighs.

'Have you ever been touched like this Rebecca,' he purred through her shivering moans, and then his tongue, then _his tongue_…

Her hands grabbed at the shackles, and… and _Jesus_… _don't think about Jesus_… it felt so good, everything he did with that mouth, so relentless and sure. And his face—was it okay to be watching him?—the gold in his hair sparked in the flickering red light and surrounded his face, so absorbed, so intense… and when he slowly opened his eyes and met hers, it was like lightning and she pressed down and ground against his mouth with a savage cry. A thrilling vibration as he moaned, shifted and she felt pressure… his fingers pushing inside her, turning, spreading and he watched her face, stopped moving when she winced, started again, tongue returning to her, stroking, fingers pressing… _he's getting me ready for him_… and no sooner did the thought occur than the pleasure that had been building, coiling tightly, suddenly exploded white-hot and bent her back like a seizure, bucked her hips and forced a long wailing cry from deep inside. She clung to her shackles for dear life, his mouth locked onto her as she writhed, and when she finally slackened, whimpering and raw, he let her go.

Spinning, gasping, unmoored. In that overwhelmed state she felt his body rise weightlessly and spread up and over hers like mist and shadow. She looked up to see his face, his eyes flashing like dark crystals, lips wet and full—so breathtakingly sensual, ethereal in the red glow—and with sudden, shocking clarity she _knew_ him:

_Lucifer_… Bringer of Dawn, the most beautiful of God's angels. The Deceiver, The Fallen One.

She should have been afraid, so close to the source of all corruption, so close to falling herself. But she hadn't fallen. Not quite. Not yet.

She tried to close her eyes, to steel herself against him, to remember herself and her faith as he moved above her, suspended on invisible wings in the hellish red.

But he whispered, 'Look at me, Rebecca… you know me… you've seen me...,' and she couldn't look away. He whispered other things, dark things she'd barely heard of, powerful and obscene… things that dissolved her resistance, reached beyond to a terrifying darkness deep inside herself. Still, she knew there was light, knew she wasn't alone, that she only needed to call out… but he was rocking against her, his long, silken hair falling around their faces like a veil, hiding from her The One she believed could see all… The One who could have summoned her back from the brink if only she'd been able to look away from that beautiful face, if only the best of her will hadn't been drained away and left her weak and burning, her soul falling as her body rose with his, euphoric in the rush of wings...

_'Rebecca..._'

Like mist, like shadow, the vision faded at the touch of his breath on her lips and he became Todd again—human, so human, with hungry eyes and naked flesh pressed hard and heavy between her legs.

Close, so close she was to falling...

With a bitten cry she turned her head, pressed her brow against her shackled arm, tugged the metal that reassured her this was not her fault, she was _not_ complicit, she was clearly his victim… a trembling victim, so wet and ready for him that she wanted to weep.

It had been a vision, only a vision... but true. She was falling... he would take her, take her all the way to Hell. She needed to pray for strength, pray for guidance, but as his mouth covered her nipple, soft tongue teasing, she knew that the _one word_ that could save her was the last word she wanted to say. As the darkness reached for her, reached to fill her, she realized for the first time how very empty she was.

He shifted and the breath rushed from her body. _Now_, now it would happen. She shivered, spread her legs wider... secure in the knowledge that he was to blame, for everything...

But there was no movement from above, no relief. She opened her eyes to find him watching her.

His lips moved close to hers in the red glow. 'We're done unless I take the handcuffs off,' he said softly. 'You have to choose, Rebecca.'

White noise filled her head and she stiffened, wanted to scream with frustration but bit her lip instead, so he wouldn't know.

Free will… the ultimate curse.

She clung to the safety of the shackles, let her hips rise—an accident, just a reflex... not a yearning, not a silent plea—_Just do it to me, you've done it to others—_because she _couldn't_ want this, couldn't_ want_ to be corrupted by this dark soul...

'Choose, Rebecca,' he whispered.

_Do you... could you... want me?_

'Please,' she groaned, shaking her head. 'I can't.'

He flinched, pain clouding his eyes. He lowered his brow to rest gently upon hers and she imagined his thoughts:

_So much easier, isn't it, sweet Rebecca, to blame someone else for the loss of your innocence, for the loss of your lily-white soul? Especially someone who's already damned..._

_Damned_

The word echoed, reverberated, grew in strength inside her like a clanging bell, until its full meaning landed as though for the first time:

_Damned_. To Hell. Sentenced to suffer unspeakable torment, for eternity.

Todd—silent and motionless above her now, lost again in a darkness she had almost begun to penetrate—so damaged and alone, so unable to let her go...

Todd. _Damned._

_I need you, Rebecca. There are a million reasons why I need you... _

He'd told her that once, in a voice so hushed and tender, humbling her, terrifying her. What could she offer him but a path to salvation? But he had rejected that path, ridiculed it... and there was nothing left to give: no repemption, no hope. The thought pierced her heart with grief.

'You saw good in me, once, Rebecca...,' he whispered, barely a sound, his breath so warm on her lips. 'Please, _see_ me...'

The red _Vacancy_ sign flickered out, leaving the room bathed in the cold blue light of dawn.

_See me_...

She focused on his face, looked deeply into his haunted, hopeful eyes, and saw... a lost soul. Nothing more, nothing less.

Just like her.

She knew from her own life that there were many kinds of hell... and as his scent mingled with hers, his skin so warm where their bodies touched that she could barely tell where she ended and he began... it occurred to her that, maybe, there was more than one kind of salvation.

_Do you... could you... want me?_

She raised her bound wrists.

'Yes,' she whispered.

His eyes softened with wonder, with gratitude. He kissed her gently, unlocked the handcuffs with careful, trembling hands. And as he gathered her into his arms and pressed inside her, so slowly, so powerfully that tears rose in her eyes, she wrapped her body around his and embraced him...

Of her own free will.

###

And she likes to remember it just this way. Because it never happened.

* * *

_To be continued in_ **2: HELL**


	2. HELL

****THREE FIRST TIMES: ******TODD and REBECCA**

**_by_ Tessaray**

* * *

**2\. HELL**

But maybe it happened this way instead, on the floor of a cabin by a river… where as a kid Todd had spent the best six days of his life. And maybe it was _more_ inevitable, if that's possible, because Rebecca was his angel, this otherworldly thing sent to lead him out of his darkness, and he knew it the second he saw her in the prison visiting room.

Even though he didn't believe that shit.

Not really.

But how else to explain Rebecca, who looked fearlessly into the yawning abyss inside him with those big doll eyes of hers, looked right smack into the heart of the monster, and saw… not rot, not evil… but something _good_. A spark of light. She believed _that_ shit, hard.

Even if he couldn't.

And how else to explain her beauty, spread out on that ratty braided rug in the cabin, her hair like a wild black halo around her porcelain face, and so _trusting_… her mouth a little, voiceless _'Oh,'_ her eyes black and bottomless, gazing up at him with startled wonder as his fingers glided in the wetness between her legs. He didn't want to meet those eyes, certain that if she looked into his too closely she'd see that she'd screwed up, that there was nothing inside him at all—no humanity, no soul—and that it was her own light she'd been seeing, reflected back at her like a flashlight reflects in the window of a pitch-black house.

Nobody's home.

She'd look at him then with horror, with disgust... with hatred. Just like everybody else. So he closed his eyes tight against the possibility and imagined her in other places… back at the Tabernacle, worrying about him and willing to do whatever he asked... and at Statesville Prison, smiling her open, eager smile...

_... Damn, what a moron. What a chump_.

Yeah, that's what he used to think whenever he saw her waiting for him in the visiting room… in her prim, flowery little dresses, clutching her big black book of fairy tales. Rebecca… right out of a Renaissance painting, a throwback, a little lamb among wolves… always so eager to _give_...

_What can I do for you Todd… how can I help you, what do you need..._

_Everything you've got, honey._

It was almost too easy to bullshit her. Of course he'd also wanted to fuck her black-and-blue back then, fuck her up… drag her kicking and screaming out of her dream world. But when another con on the block saw her and made a crack about doing that very thing, he'd jumped the son of a bitch, got him in a chokehold and earned himself a stint in solitary. That's when he knew he was in trouble.

If she _was_ an angel—and he'd started to let himself play with the idea a little—then she'd come for _him_, she was _his_… and even if she wasn't a real _Angel_ angel, she was still too good and pure for this cesspool of a world, was above dirty physical acts. So he'd forced himself, with a lot of effort, to stop thinking of her _that way._

He could have done her when he'd had her handcuffed to the bed in that motel room—God, what he could have done. He knew she wanted him, had seen the signs for weeks and she wouldn't have resisted… _much_… but he'd also seen how confused and ashamed she was about it, how hard she'd fought the lust—what else could it have been but some kind of wide-eyed, romance-novel lust?—and for once he'd actually given a shit. It wasn't easy, but he'd stomped on his impulses, squashed them like bugs, shoved down the dirty things he wanted to do to her... because they reminded him of his dad. And Todd didn't want that bastard anywhere near her.

No, he didn't want to do what he was doing to her... not at all. He could hardly stand to see her this way... flat on her back like so many others had been, with their virginal white panties in a tangle by their sides, dresses twisted high around their creamy hips… but now, _here_, he needed to make sure Rebecca lost that fight of hers and gave herself to him. It was the only way to make her stay—to make her _want_ to stay—so he could put away the gun, put away the threats, forever.

Fucking selfish. He knew it, and it gave him a miserable new sensation, a _painful_ sensation, like a numb limb waking up. And other sensations, too, that he recognized as _guilt_ and_ shame_ and _remorse_… confusing to sort them all out, but one thing was sure… they hurt like hell.

And it was her fault. She'd been gradually cracking him open like a piñata with the club of that ruthless _faith_ she had in him, spilling him out at her feet… and he had to look, couldn't look away, couldn't stuff himself back into his old rotten carcass anymore, not after what he'd started to see and feel…

And this place, this cabin, only crystalized it… how far he'd fallen, how broken he was. He thought it would be like heaven, coming back here... and it was at first, walking into memories that warmed him to the point of tears —six perfect days with his mother when he was ten. The only time in his entire crap existence that he'd felt loved and happy and safe. And it was like being in the light of her presence all over again, like her spirit lived in the walls, her breath filled the rooms, and he inhaled her, felt her surrounding him in this holy place... holding him in her embrace, tighter and tighter, so tight... then too tight, squeezing to the point of pain and he started to suffocate in her grip, started to panic and his heart finally exploded and it was grief he felt, yeah _grief_... because he saw clearly for the first time what he really was... felt the evil inside him and he knew it must have been there all along... it's what made her finally reject him and send him away like old garbage. He was a cancer invading the thriving body of this place, a serpent slithering on its belly into paradise…

He'd wanted to fall to his knees then, scratch at the floorboards until his fingers bled, howl at the ceiling for forgiveness and mercy...

But he'd mastered himself, choked down the anguish like so many other things that had threatened to kill him... because he wasn't alone.

Rebecca was with him… his angel, ethereally beautiful.… handcuffed, exhausted, terrified. The perfect symbol of his handiwork.

Rebecca was with him… and with him she had to stay.

###

A small sound like the mewl of a kitten brought him back to her, beneath him on the rug, her lips fuller and a deeper shade of red now, her small fingers twisting in his flannel shirt. Yeah, it was selfish to do this to her… and maybe that made him no better than his father… but she'd broken him open and made him look… and she was damn sure gonna stick around and fix him.

He was getting hard in spite of himself, breathing the first warm scent of her, feeling her swell and flutter around his fingers… but she flinched suddenly, jerked her hips, just a little, just enough for him to freeze.

_Shit_, he was being too rough...

He hesitated, not sure what to do. _Tenderness_… that's what he needed… such a foreign concept, so unmanly. He knew the mechanics of getting a girl off, but he only ever bothered if he wanted one of them coming back for more so he could humiliate her, or use her again... but he was never _tender. _Girls weren't good for much... mostly for boosting your ego or getting you off—his dad taught him that—and he'd learned early and often that they don't care about you, no matter how much you need them to. Reflected glory, that's their thing, to get with the flavor of the month. Still, he'd tried at first, to be gentle and considerate with their strange, soft, _breakable_ bodies, but fuck it. In the end, if he was nothing but meat, so were they. So he brought the same aggression to the backseat or couch or public bathroom that he brought to the gridiron. Most of them seemed to get off on it… and those that didn't? Well, so what. Users, all of them. Liars, just like his dad said. And you had to do it to them before they did it to you.

But this was Rebecca, pure and trembling beneath him... she'd never used him, never lied… she cared. She was the only one...

'Hush,' he whispered, moved his hand to lighten his touch, caressed her… and there, in the cabin by the river, she sighed, spread her white thighs for him...

That should have made him happy, but her sigh… it reminded him that yeah, she _cared_... she cared too much.

_I fell in love with you.._.

He winced as her words swooped down on him again like rabid bats, like curses… words that had been circling ever since she'd said them on the floor by the leather sofa—minutes ago, hours? They mocked him, accused him… because how _could_ she, after everything he'd done to her…

_I fell in love with you.._.

He'd tried to shut that shit down, and fast. It wasn't love, _couldn't be love. _Lust, okay, yeah… he knew his appeal, knew how to work it and he'd done a real number on her… but not _love_. But she'd insisted and he saw the truth in her face, glowing like she was looking at some fucking Disney prince and not at _him_, saw it like a split screen… who he was versus who she saw... and the gulf between the two terrified him, made him want to puke. He could never be _that_. Never. Oh, hot rage shot through his gut then, or anguish, or both—he couldn't tell the difference—and he wanted to punch her because he, this black soulless thing, didn't deserve her _love_… didn't know how to be, couldn't bear to be… _loved_, and she had no right to make him _feel all this shit anyway_… and everything that got swallowed down when he'd walked into this holy place came surging up like vomit, like ghosts, like memories...

_… and there stood his mother, beautiful and good, in the darkness above his bed... her voice thick with tears, 'It's been such a nice visit, let's not spoil it…,' because she was sending him back to his father, back to Hell, back to be brutalized and broken and…_ _and—and the hands in the night and the helplessness and scorching pain inside... nowhere to turn, no one to help him or save him or love him… because they all saw him for what he was… worthless garbage, and he deserved it… he deserved it all..._

The memories had plunged him deep, too deep, held him under, crushed him with their unbearable pressure… but he'd struggled even then, for control. _Oh Jesus, no,_ not tears… not in front of a girl. He couldn't let himself be so weak, and if she'd been any other girl she would have had to pay for that weakness… but it was Rebecca, with those eyes and that stupid, relentless faith and he couldn't choke it down again, could feel the fucking dam bursting...

He'd flinched away from her first tentative touch like a leper… but then he felt her lay an open palm on his head and he collapsed under the sheer power of her, of the blessing, his ancient, impenetrable armor tearing away from him like flesh from bone leaving him naked, defenseless before this monstrous grief. And he wept then, helplessly... the abandoned child, knowing he would die, wanting to die because there was nothing in the world but monsters… no air, no light, nothing good...

_i'm shit i'm nothing don't leave me..._

But Rebecca was with him...

She'd lowered herself onto the hearth beside him, slipped gentle arms around his body and murmured words without meaning because he was in a place without language... just bursting, showering pain. She was offering herself again, despite everything...

_What can I do for you Todd… how can I help you, what do you need..._

And he'd crumbled into her lap and wrapped himself around her like the serpent that he was, slithering on its belly, desperate to find a way back into paradise through deception, seduction… whatever it took… knowing that when she finally saw the truth, saw him for what he was, she would reject and abandon him like all the others. Until then, he would feed on her kindness, squeeze the life out of her, destroy her pretty, pretty soul...

But... as she cradled him against her soft body, rocked him, her hands tenderly stroking his hair, it slowly dawned on him through the anguish that maybe _she_ was the deceptive one... not innocent, not defenseless at all, but hard as steel in her way… hard enough to have relentlessly pushed him, pushed him until he shattered and fell… and tough enough to catch him, to take his worst and still be the one left standing...

Victorious. While reducing him to... _this_.

Winners and losers... that's all there is, was and ever will be. He learned that long ago, on the football field... at the flame-end of his father's lighter...

_Give me those tears, you pussy, give me those tears… yeah, won't be long now..._

And the rage came then, surged through his body like wildfire, stiffening him in Rebecca's arms, hardening his face into a snarl. He reared up and lunged, grabbed her hair, jerked her head back and shouted...

'_What are you trying to do to me!'_

He expected to see an echo of triumph in her eyes, or hatred or fear. But her cheeks were wet, her eyes red. She'd been crying right along with him. And all he saw was sorrow.

He let her go and melted back, dashed at his tears with a rough hand, and felt… what was that… _shame, regret?_ Still too new to know for sure, but whatever it was, _fuck, it hurt_.

'I'm sorry, Rebecca, Jesus, I'm sorry.' He shoved away from her... but her hand slipped into his and wouldn't let go. His eyes were drawn to the red mark where the handcuffs had chafed her wrist raw... he stared at it, cold shock creeping through his body because he knew in that instant that he couldn't be that _thing_ anymore… the thing that could do that to her, the black thing he'd come to hate… but he had no choice.

There was nothing else inside.

It made him reel... the hollowness of himself… and then he seemed to rise and float, weightless in frozen space and the only real thing in the world was Rebecca and her hand in his, tethering him as he hung suspended between a past he couldn't bear and a hopeless future of more of the same… endless black chaos…

God, the terror, edging toward panic… but she was with him, eyes fixed on his and fierce with a certainty he would have chewed his arm off to feel… she was with him, believing _hard_ that there was a spark of something else inside him... and maybe _he_ didn't have to believe it… maybe he could just believe in her belief and that would be enough...

Spinning, gasping, unmoored, he silently asked her... whatever kind of creature she was... Angel, girl or something in between...

_Can you see me, Rebecca? Is there anything good in me? Are you strong enough to show me how to BE what you see?_

That's when he knew what he had to do. And it horrified him. He shouldn't be her first, for so many reasons… but he was falling and had no choice—he needed her to stay with him. And she was strong… so strong...

_Are you strong _ _enough to really love me, Rebecca?_

She'd resisted for only an instant as he slipped his hand into her hair. She stiffened, closed her eyes… but when she opened them again they were soft with... _surrender_.

And she kissed him first. She did.

And then it hadn't taken much to get her here, half-naked beneath him on the rug, her hips rocking against the rhythm of his fingers. The whole _tenderness_ thing seemed to be working.

_I fell in love with you.._.

He tried not to think about the words circling like vultures… or about the fact that she'd given him that opening and he'd slithered right on through...

Yeah, if only she'd kept her mouth shut, none of this would be happening.

#

_Just use her, _the old familiar voice said.

He shook it away. He didn't feel so panicky now, or so hollow. He was winning, was fairly sure she would stay of her own free will, that he'd be able to put the gun away...

He watched Rebecca, her porcelain cheeks flushing a deep pink, her eyes fluttering closed as he touched her. It would be so easy to roll on top of her and take… she wouldn't fight him and he could pound her, hurt her, show her the truth of what he was...

But maybe it wasn't the whole truth. This holy place, this sacred room... the strangling grip of it had loosened and warm voices were whispering memories to his mind... of shared laughter and closeness, of blue eyes smiling and full of pride, memories of innocence, of worthiness...

He trailed the fingers of his free hand over Rebecca's breasts, her swollen nipples… and her sounds as he dipped his head to lick and tease and draw each into his mouth in turn—sweet cries and gasping moans—they were good sounds, satisfying, and made him bite down gently until he felt her hands clawing his hair, felt her body writhing beneath him...

Not so innocent now, Rebecca… not so angelic, but human and wet and so turned on… he felt a buzz of pride that he was doing that to her...

And he froze in horror, seized by a terrible thought—what if it were somehow true, what if she really were an _Angel_ angel… then this would ruin her, defile her, destroy her power...

He tried to dismiss the weird idea… that was Rebecca's world. He supposed that with all the faith and salvation crap oozing out of her, he couldn't help but get some of it on him, but it was all lies and he didn't believe in any of it. Couldn't. Because what kind of a loving God would create a Peter Manning and set him loose on the earth to torture children, to—

Another terrible thought seized him and bile rose in his throat: he was _corrupting_ her... the only woman who had ever given him hope, who had never hurt him. Whatever his selfish bullshit excuses, he was dragging her down to his level... corrupting _her_, just like he'd been corrupted in his own bed so long ago—

_Oh fuck_, this had to stop.

He yanked his hand from between her legs with an agonized cry, started to roll away, but she grabbed his shirt in her fists and held him close.

'God, Rebecca, I can't—'

'Todd,' she said, her voice low. 'I _want_ this.'

_'No, you don't! _I'm shit, Rebecca. Don't you get that I'm manipulating you, I'm_ using _you?'

She held onto him tightly, so tightly that he couldn't get free without hurting her. He let her draw him up until he was looking down into her face, shining with humor he wasn't quite grasping...

'Yes, _you're_ using _me,_' she said with a small, breathless laugh.

She arched up suddenly and ran her hot tongue along his throat, shifted her hands to his head and held on even as he tried to twist away. She brushed her lips along his and when he parted them to argue, she pulled him down for a deep, wild kiss that ignited the blood in his veins. He felt dizzy, felt his own heat and need rise… and as she grabbed his hand and pushed it between her legs again, he finally understood... and how could he refuse? It was the first time she had ever asked him for anything.

So he surrendered... to her, to her faith, to the gentle whispers in the room... and with a growl he swept her open mouth with his tongue, pushed insistent fingers inside her and she yelped, yielded, melted back and just gave herself to him… arousing him so powerfully that he forgot his fears, threw away the old playbook and just followed her cues… the helpless pleasure playing over her face, the subtle movements of her hips. He took her up and up, distantly amazed that with just two fingers he was controlling her entire body, and he was enjoying that control, was hard with it, and with the sheen of sweat between her breasts, the swell and flutter around his fingers…

He caught his breath as her neck jerked back suddenly, her thighs spread wide, heels digging into the braided rug. A sudden, savage cry erupted from her throat and she came... hips bucking, hands twisting wildly in his hair. His eyes slammed shut and the air rushed from his lungs as he experienced her orgasm in a kind of euphoria of his own, his body vibrating, cock straining against his jeans to get inside her.

But maybe this was enough... he might not have to... defile her. Maybe the key to making her stay was to keep her wanting more… but he felt her ragged breath on his cheek, opened his eyes to find hers, shining, black and unfocused; so deep that he couldn't look away though he desperately wanted to, and now, finally, she'd see the truth, the rot, the evil inside him. He braced himself for the gasp of horror that was coming, the disgust and hatred... but instead, she whimpered as her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. He didn't resist when she finally got it open, pushed it back over his shoulders, pressed hot lips to his throat and gave him a hard, possessive bite that went straight to his groin.

'Keep going, Todd, please,' she moaned against his skin, squeezed herself around his fingers, still buried inside her... and her hands—delicate, white and graceful as she'd thumbed the pages of her Bible—now slid hot and greedy over his chest, down his stomach, unbuttoned his jeans...

He'd never fucked gently before, never took his time. It went against everything he knew to do it this way... to enter her slowly, despite the intense pleasure and primal call to sink to the hilt... to _care_ that he could see sudden anxiety mixing with the hunger in her face, to soothe her with whispers and gentle kisses. So strange to pause, his heart pounding in his ears, and let her breathe through the discomfort of adjusting to him... to control his need until she relaxed and he could press deeper...

But it was good, this awareness. He felt… drawn out of himself, _connected_ to her. And when he was fully settled inside he whispered,_ 'Wrap your legs around me_, _Rebecca_..._'_ and was surprised by how rough and breathless he sounded. She shifted beneath him, a movement that made him gasp, jerk his hips and plunge too hard, too deep... but she moaned, slid both her legs and arms around him, cocooning him with her body. It was almost too much, reminded him of all the reasons he didn't deserve this, almost made him rear back and start slamming her so he could finish and get the hell away. But he held his breath, let himself feel her and relax into the warmth and softness, the profound pleasure... the incredible comfort inside and out...

She was looking into his eyes, looking so deep… seeing him, but not recoiling, not afraid. He didn't know what she saw that made her smile, his kind-of sort-of maybe real _Angel_ angel... he might never know, but she did smile, sweet and slow, and for the first time since coming back to this holy place, he didn't feel like a cancer or a serpent insinuating itself into a paradise where it didn't belong.

He felt... hopeful.

Because Rebecca was with him.

###

It should have happened just this way. He'd needed it to… and it might have. If she hadn't betrayed him.

* * *

_To be continued in_ **3: PURGATORY**


	3. PURGATORY, Part One

**THREE FIRST TIMES**

**_by _Tessaray**

* * *

**3\. PURGATORY**

**Part One**

* * *

Or maybe it happened this way… and there was nothing inevitable about it. In fact, it was completely avoidable.

* * *

Todd sits on his bed in Room 2 at the Quik-Stop Motel, not thinking, not wanting to think, just watching a recent event play in an endless loop behind his staring eyes…

Powell Lord the Third… being led from the room in handcuffs, slack-jawed, empty-eyed… long gone, insane…

Todd blinks, twitches, absently runs his tongue over his teeth, reviving the phantom taste of stale salt. Nothing—not toothpaste, not mouthwash, not booze—nothing has been able to get rid of that damned taste.

_Open your mouth… come on, open it. Wider…_

He cringes at the memory, flooded again with glorious relief that a sweatband was all Powell had shoved between his lips. Given the intensity of Powell's obsession with him, Todd had half-expected something else…

He hasn't been breathing, heaves in air until his chest hurts. He should be glad, should be fucking _rejoicing_ that he nabbed the so-called Hospital Rapist himself, that he's finally in the clear—even Bo-zo nearly choked out an apology before Todd cut him off to spare them both the shock—but he's solidly aware that he's been shoved off a cliff, that he's hanging in mid-air like a cartoon character in the vertiginous moment just before the fall. But the fall is coming… _that's_ inevitable. He just has to stay up here as long as possible, detached, numb... and refuse to look down. Because he's not at all sure he'll survive the landing.

_You wanted me to be like you. You wanted me to be you. Well guess what? I. AM. YOU._

Todd closes his eyes against Powell's voice, and against the echo of cold steel biting his temple. He had been… impressive, Powell had… there behind Todd on that cliff, shoving his little shoves, spitting his little truths. Certainly more impressive as a nut-job than as any of his other incarnations: frat brother, fellow gang rapist, fellow con, poster boy for redemption, Rebecca's fiancé…

Todd Manning Wanna-be.

_I. AM. YOU._

Yeah… sarcasm, sadism, violence… it was all right there, so very _Todd_. He swallows bile, tastes mouthwash and sweat, sees himself on his knees, hands tied, begging for his life, helpless… helpless like Marty had been when he'd forced himself inside her at the KAD house… helpless like Carol… and the others…

And another echo rises… of soul-deep terror.

_I. AM. YOU._

He can't think about that, can't look down or back or inside, or anywhere that might make him fall. His fingers twitch as his mind skips ahead to the moment he'd wrenched the gun from Powell, pointed it center mass and every cell in his body shrieked at him to pull the trigger, to fucking _end_ the piece of shit that terrorized and humiliated him, that showed him the truth about himself… but he threw the gun away, sent it skidding across the threadbare carpet before he could change his mind… gut-sick with horror, grateful to the psycho in a twisted kind of way… and sorrier than he'd ever been in his life…

Because once upon a time that psycho—that _boy—_had been his friend. And it destroyed him.

Todd hisses, shakes his head to fight gravity and stay aloft, and red sparks catch his eye... eternal Hellfire coming for him. But no, not yet—it's just the sunset hitting the mirror on the dresser, glinting off the edges of cracks spidering out from a bullet hole in the center. He lets his gaze wander over the glass, then he pushes up painfully from the bed, the barely-healed knife wound searing his gut. Powell did that, too, but missed vital organs. Poor bastard couldn't get anything right.

Todd moves in front of the mirror, stares at his reflection, fractured and bloody in the red glow. Perfect. Just how he feels. The notion forms that he's like the mirror—took a wound to the core, but splintered, didn't shatter. He never shatters. People around him shatter all the time—his mother, Marty, Powell, Rebecca—everyone shatters and falls to pieces while he just splinters; nothing but sharp edges, slicing anything that gets close.

Or maybe he's more like the bullet… ricocheting around, tearing flesh and mind and heart even when he doesn't mean to. And he could find someone else to blame for that—used to, all the time—but he knows now, knows even as he hangs in mid-air and struggles not to look down, that his eyes will always return to the mirror in the end.

Goddamn fucking Powell.

He searches himself for the rage he wants to feel… looks in the usual places… but all he finds is grief. And shit, there are tears…

_I. AM. YOU._

He dashes at his cheeks, rubs his wrists to chase away the ghostly belt tightening around them, feels Powell's breath like hot liquid on his face…

_Beg me for your life… go on BEG… Oh, Todd, are you scared? You're acting like a little girl…_

And memories swirl up and around, some clear, some like shadows… of Peter Manning, of pain, of _shame_…

And he realizes as he stares at his jagged reflection that he's never begged before in his life, not for anything… not even when begging might have spared him, or at least lessened his suffering. But today, he begged. And he knows why.

Unfinished business.

_You made Marty beg…_

Marty. Her face gradually forms in the mirror, superimposed over his own, bathed in red but whole, not fractured like his. He finally understood... Powell made him understand, made him _feel _what he'd done to her… and he had to apologize to her, _had to_, with everything in him. So he did, he meant it... and it hurt like hell. But she _heard _him and he felt better afterwards; still repulsive, but cleaner, like a freshly flushed toilet. Whether she forgives him or not is none of his damn business… but when she'd actually gotten up the courage to touch him, to jab at his scar like he was this loathsome thing, this phobia she'd managed to overcome—like to snakes or blood—he was proud of her. But heartsick that he was _the thing, _so sick at heart, sick in his soul. And sick at the thought that he might actually have a soul after all.

Which—if Rebecca's Holy Book is right—means he's completely fucked.

Rebecca. Warmth floods him at the thought of her, but something follows like a shadow, something deeper, less… _affectionate_. He shoves it away, hard. Rebecca… she ran her hand through his hair just before she left earlier, hung on and pulled a bit like she didn't want to let go. She'd finally admitted her feelings for him, _finally_ confirmed that he wasn't crazy…

_I told Powell I loved him, but I was always thinking of you…_

The dark feeling grows in his chest, constricts, clenches his jaw. Her voice, her words crowd each other, shout in his mind—accusations, betrayals and fucking awful lies— and he can't think about her… _won't_… but his eyes widen, breath catches and he feels his heart break all over again. And even now, after all the horrors of the day, this pain is still the worst.

_I see you now. You're The Beast._

Her words, her eyes...

The room disappears, the mirror, everything disappears but Rebecca's eyes—crazy eyes fixed on him from across the table in the Llanview jail. She'd believed that he tried to rape her, told him she knew he was Satan, glared hatred and loathing at him with those beautiful, innocent, crazy eyes. It had broken him then, her abandonment. She was the only one who'd ever had faith in him, who'd ever given him hope; his _angel_, if such things exist. But Powell showed him today that she'd been right about him, that her madness had simply blown away all her delusions and fantasies, had lifted the veil, had _freed_ her to see him for the monster he really is...

He slams his own eyes shut, grinds them with his knuckles to see stars or blood or anything but Rebecca's face—not the crazy, but the _love_ after the crazy had somehow faded, after she realized that _Powell_ was the one who'd tried to hurt her. _Love_, even after everything she'd been through, shining out at him like Heaven itself… pure and _eternal_… because in Rebecca Land there is no such thing as grey, and if Powell is the evil one, then Todd must be the good one after all. So he'd sent her away—had to. Her world is too simple and too wrong and too sick and it's too fucking late for pretending he has any hope of salvation.

He destroyed Powell. They both did. That's the truth. And Powell returned the favor—he made Todd look. And now he can't look away…

And suddenly the earth is rushing toward him, bile floods his throat and he barely makes it to the john before he vomits, heaves up the day and the day before that, and maybe he can keep going and get rid of it all, everything that made him do the sick shit he's done, leave him an empty shell with nothing inside at all… and he can start over, fill himself with something new… or maybe just collapse into dust…

He grips the tank, sweat cooling on his face, hunches with another spasm, but it doesn't come. He coughs, spits, barely has the energy to flush. He drops back against the wall, slides down, knees up, head rolling to the side. He feels Marty's fingers on his scar and it tingles, like a wound beginning to heal. He lets himself imagine that… a healing, a gift of forgiveness, a magic touch that will remake him. More likely, she woke the thing up from dormancy and now it will spread like leprosy until his outside matches his insides; mangled, hideous, ruined.

Yeah, that's what'll happen. He gives it twenty-four hours, tops.

He's falling fast, straight into the abyss Powell opened. It's waiting there, the consuming darkness, belching out a stench that threatens to gag him again.

He does a fast mental scan of his room; nothing sharper than a letter opener, but he could tear open the stitches in his gut with it. Maybe he could bleed to death. He imagines his body floating in a womb of blood, shoves a hand into his shirt, fingers the bandage, tears at the tape to feel a sting… yeah, now's the time, before he hits bottom; while everyone still thinks relatively well of him—the last time he'll ever be mistaken for a hero.

A picture appears in his mind like another kind of gift… Powell's gun. What happened to the gun? He starts to push up… remembers that the cops took it. Of course they did... _evidence. _Plus, you don't leave firearms lying around where monsters can find them. He flops back onto the floor, tunes in to Powell's voice echoing in the small room…

_Todd Manning deserves to die. There's no forgiveness for him…_

Foul taste in his mouth… everything has left a foul taste… puking, begging, guilt… the honest, cold hatred in Rebecca's eyes…

_You're The Beast… I won't let you take my soul…_

And life itself... that leaves the worst taste of all. Every damned day.

He shoves up to his feet, leans on the sink, grabs the mouthwash from the cabinet again, uncaps it, downs a few more gulps. Catches himself in the mirror... intact, unfractured, no red… but it still reflects a monster.

Of course… the mirror. Shards of glass—one deep cut…

_This'll be a double execution… I'll follow you, like I always do…_

'Don't follow too close, Powell,' he whispers into the silence. 'I'm not worth it. Never was.'

He stares into the monster's face, into the abyss, until black is all he sees.

* * *

_To be continued in_** 3: PURGATORY, PART 2**


	4. PURGATORY, Part Two

**THREE FIRST TIMES**

**_by _Tessaray**

* * *

**3\. PURGATORY**

**Part Two**

* * *

Rebecca stands on the sidewalk in front of the Llanview police station and stares at the crimson sunset, spreading across the sky like a pool of fresh blood. An ugly association; she never used to make associations like that, not before she came to this town. But in Texas, men who claimed to love her didn't routinely try to kidnap, rape and kill her.

She's jumpy, anxious, maybe a little out of control... like she's been for hours days weeks...

She feels hands seize her throat again, hot breath on her cheek and she wheels around, expecting to see Powell and his wild, hate-filled eyes, but there's empty air. Except for the demons… demons everywhere, punishing and tormenting the wicked...

_Jezebel paints her face…_

She breathes deeply, the icy air like fire in her lungs. She was fine earlier, alone with Todd at the motel after Powell had been taken away. It was over, finally over, and things were sharp, in focus—she understood how wrong she'd been, about _everything_, and she wanted to tell Todd... but he _dismissed_ her, told her he needed time, and her mind began a kind of… manic unspooling, like film coming off its reel. And now things are ricocheting around, warped, out of sequence like they were before… and voices, too, disjointed, some whispering, others leaping high like fish breaking the surface, silvery and vital, then gone altogether, like the dream images she thinks she'd gotten rid of, only to find that they're swimming beneath her thoughts...

But she's trying so hard to keep the thread of reality, to make sense of it all…

Is this a dream? The wind is biting the exposed skin of her face, and it hurts when she digs her fingernails into her palm. No, she's awake. She had gloves... she must have left them somewhere… maybe at the hospital when they checked her for injuries and found nothing serious, just bruises from Powell's rough handling at the frat house. They didn't think to check her soul… do they even have machines for that? Her gloves are probably inside the police station; she must have laid them down on Bo's desk when she gave her statement...

_Powell tried to kill me and he almost killed Todd and it's all my fault._

They shushed her when she said that last part—Bo and Nora and Renee—fussing over her like she wasn't to blame for Powell's insanity, trying to console her, reassure her that no one could have known he was the rapist, and _thank God_ she was rescued in time. She _was rescued_… passive construction, like it just sort of happened, like Todd hadn't burst into the room where Powell held her at gunpoint and demanded to trade his life for hers...

Like Todd, not Powell, was the evil one. And like God played any role whatsoever.

But she knew they were all lying. They blamed her, too, but they were trying to deceive her, just like Powell had this whole time, pretending to be the good one. She doesn't know for sure that they're as bad as him, but better to be safe. She watched them closely as they fluttered around her, and braced herself for the moment when one of their human masks might split and reveal the demon inside. Not that she has the power to cast out demons, but she won't be caught off-guard. Not again.

The streetlight snaps on above her, startling her. Her hands have gone numb and she can no longer feel the pain of her fingernails digging, digging... but she can feel Todd's hair. She touched it when he sent her away… silken, long, like Samson's. He'd given her scissors once, when they were on the run; she can still feel the cold weight of them, see the sharp blades glinting in the winter-blue light filtering through the shades in that dingy motel room. He had asked her to change him, to cut off his hair, and maybe if she'd done it, he would have lost his power—over her, over Powell, over everyone he'd seduced. She could have broken the spell then and there, and none of this would be happening...

So that's her fault, too. It's all her fault, and numbness is a blessing she doesn't deserve. She deserves pain, needs it... for so many reasons...

The bloody sunset spreads—ominous and beautiful. Cars are passing, slowing to look at the sinful girl with demons at her back. Everyone knows about her by now and she can't stay here. Just down the street to the left is her room at the Palace Hotel; warm and safe, floral wallpaper, floral bedspread… a garden where she no longer belongs. Renee will have tea waiting for her, and cookies, and more wicked lies.

_Oh darling, hush now_._ Don't blame yourself… you're the innocent victim in all this! What you need is rest, a good night's sleep_. _Things will look different in the morning, you'll see…_

Rest. Sleep. She'd like to sleep, to return to the garden, but with sleep comes dreams, and the worst part is, she welcomes the dreams, is warmed by the way his long hair sways like slow flames as he accuses her… _Jezebel paints her face, lures men_… Satan with Todd's face, forcing her to confront the evil inside herself. She's not meant to embrace it… but she does, there in the safety of sleep. She embraces the evil, and the glorious feeling of freedom, of no longer needing to hide...

But she's awake now. Wide awake.

She stays there under the glare of the streetlight, lets the passersby stare until the red fades from the sky, leaving only black leafless tree limbs clawing at the indigo horizon. Down the street to the left is the garden and wicked lies and sweet, sweet dreams. But to the right, on the edge of town, is the Quik-Stop motel.

And the one person who understands… the one person who can give her what she truly needs.

* * *

Todd isn't answering his door.

Rebecca is shivering, teeth chattering, partly from cold... partly from gnawing fear. Her hand is sore from knocking; the skin of one knuckle is cracked and bleeding. She stares at the shiny red, licks it, tastes pennies. There's nowhere else he could be, nowhere for him to go...

_Powell said he was me, and he started treating me the way I've always treated everyone else, and I felt like, who that was… that guy… maybe he should die…_

She remembers the despair on Todd's face when he said that... and her heart is tightening with the idea that he might have done it... that he might have done it _without her_...

But no.

Something else must be wrong… they're joined now. She knows that their mutual destruction of Powell has created an eternal bond between them—she felt it deepen with each step she took toward him through the blistering cold. That's how she knows he's not already dead; she'd sense it, like a void in the world, pulling her in...

She shrugs to loosen Powell's grip on her throat, and even his hot breath on her cheek can't stop the shivering. She catches her reflection in the brass number 2 on the door, reflexively licks her lips, tosses her hair... and cringes at the evil inside, feels the demons swarming, wings beating...

_Jezebel paints her face..._

She reaches down a trembling hand, turns the knob to escape the sounds and slowly pushes the door open onto a consuming darkness. Of course it's darkness… where else would he be? It creeps into the brightly lit hallway like a living thing, reaches for her, forces her back as disembodied syllables drift out and surround her...

'Am I going to hell?'

It's a child's voice, bewildered, frightened, a voice that could be her own conscience... it draws her over the threshold and into the room. There's enough light from the hallway that she can see Todd, motionless, facing the dresser. She could flip the switch on the wall, bathe the room in brightness and clarity… but she turns, closes the door behind her.

'Am I?' he says softly.

'Yes, I think so,' she says.

'Oh.' He sounds so sad as he accepts her judgement without question. 'Am I evil... or just a screw-up?'

She's lost sight of him in the fresh darkness, can only hear his voice. Evil… yes, she's felt it in him, twining around her organs like vines, tearing her apart, pulling her down.

That must be what happened to Powell.

She doesn't know how to answer him; she's not sure there's a difference between evil and screwed up, so she stays silent. She feels no urgency to speak, no urgency about anything. Her shivering has stopped. It's warm here... there's a strange sense of peace, of eternity. Their fates were decided before time began, she knows that now... so she watches his form in the darkness. Her eyes gradually adjust to the dim glow of streetlights sifting through the shades... and shapes emerge, and textures, objects take on volume and depth... there's so much to see in the grey, she realizes… so much is happening...

And then there he is...

And so much of him is gone.

She closes her eyes, wishes the room were black again so she wouldn't have to see it… how thoroughly his ferocious will has been tamed. And worse… it's what he wants. She secretly reveled in that will once, let it lead her into dark places where she was able to taste freedom... but now he stands in a defeated slouch, mouth slack, hair cloaking his head like a penitent's hood. She unconsciously rubs her thumb over the fingers of her right hand, tingling at the remembered feel of silk, at the recollection of fantasies... his hair flowing over her breasts and thighs...

She blinks that away with hot shame and looks deeper, looks for the rage that used to waft around him like scent, but there's no trace of it… just a palpable, profound sorrow. That's erotic to her, too, even more than her fantasies, or his aggression… or his tenderness. Sorrow… she can crawl inside it with him, feed off it, use it to get what she came for...

She eases out of her coat, drapes it over her arm and slowly moves to his side. She turns to the cracked mirror to see what he sees in the dim, silvery light.

His reflection is fragmented, skewed like a Picasso drawing. The sensual curve of his lips, the goatee that softens the angles of his nose and jaw, eyes that undress or hate with equal intensity… all the features are freakishly misaligned. It's fascinating… like a glimpse of truth...

'I don't think you're evil or screwed up, Todd. I think you're like that... broken. The parts don't fit together.'

'Parts missing,' he says softly.

'Or warped.'

His mismatched brows furrow. 'You too.'

She's vaguely insulted, but it's true. Her face, the face of a porcelain doll—bow lips, button nose, wide black eyes—is equally fractured, splintered into pieces.

Side by side they stand, joined. Twin grotesques.

'Powell is like us now,' she says with wonder.

'We made him like us.'

She sways, closes her eyes, flooded with warmth and a euphoria that spirals her high until she's floating near the ceiling. _We_. Yes, we did. How mighty _we_ are, with the power to create and destroy... like gods.

They're quiet together then, listening to the wings that followed her into the room, that are circling them both, until gravity and the profound weight of sin gradually return Rebecca to the floor, to the true reflection of her soul. She notices a dark shape in the corner of the mirror, long, jagged… an absence. She understands instantly.

'Did you cut yourself, Todd?'

His silence is heavy. She turns to him beside her, to the rolled-up sleeve, the shiny dark trail on the pale skin of his inner forearm. She should be alarmed, should be calling for help… but they're joined now. She knows he's all right.

'Can I see?'

He lifts his undamaged arm and offers up the shard, just as she'd intended. The tip is smeared with blood… it should be black in that light, but she sees red, crimson, _ruby red, Jezebel paints her face Jezebel the harlot Jezebel lures men to sin and damnation... _the stream in her mind is loud again, even louder than the of beating wings. She drops her coat to the floor, tests the shard against her palm, feels Todd's tension, but he doesn't stop her.

'Powell said I want to be hurt,' she says dreamily, tracing small patterns on her palm, the sharp point tickling her skin. 'He said that's why I want you. He wanted you, too, but he couldn't face it. You do that to people... make them want you. Then you make them hate themselves for it, punish themselves...'

She senses that he's listening deeply, hearing what she's not saying, what she can't quite bring herself to say... what she doesn't need to say. They're joined—her desires are already known to him, reverberating inside him. He shudders, makes an anguished sound. The truth is hard sometimes...

'Why are you here, Rebecca...,' he whispers.

She lightly draws the point of the shard up her inner forearm, mimicking his wound. 'I think you know.'

She watches his reflection... the shattered jaw flexing, pieces of throat moving with swallowing. He does know… she can see it, feel it, but he's struggling to pretend he doesn't. Still wanting to pretend, even though all illusions have fallen away…

'Would you do that for me, Todd?'

He stops pretending. He shakes his head once, hard, then again, faster and faster, hair swaying like a noose, his reflection a dancing, hypnotic mosaic of pain. 'No,' he says. 'No. I won't.'

'We have to pay for what we did. Both of us.'

_'Jesus!'_ He pitches forward, grabs the edge of the dresser, grips until his knuckles are white in the dim, grey light.

'You saved me from Powell.'

'I could never let you be hurt, by _anyone_,_" _he says with a strange intensity._ '_Do you understand? I love you.'

'Then you have to save me again.'

He turns to her fully for the first time and looks into her eyes. They're joined—there's nothing he could see there that he doesn't already know in his soul. Yet she watches him search her, watches him find something that makes his beautiful face melt with despair.

'Oh, no, Rebecca... no. God, I'm so sorry.' He closes his eyes, body sagging, voice crumbling to ashes. When he speaks again, he seems very far away. 'Tell me what you need...'

And just like that, the demon wings fall silent.

* * *

_To be continued in_ **3\. Purgatory, Part Three**


End file.
